


Nightmares

by AnnaofAza



Series: the sleep series [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dreams, M/M, Nightmares, Protective Castiel, Safe for Booky, kind of Au-ish, post Mary's death, season four
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 22:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2001066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up when Dean screams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bookkbaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookkbaby/gifts).



John wakes up when Dean screams.

  
He curses violently, whirling around the tiny room to grab his rifle and some extra salt rounds from the duffel bag. Pocketing a silver dagger just in case, John starts towards the door. Bobby _told_ him that this was a safe place—Bobby _swore_ he salted down every window and every threshold—Bobby reassured him that _nothing_ would come to harm them. Well, that bastard’s wrong.  
  
His heartbeat is thrumming through his veins, in his ears, pounding as the door creaks open. He steps out into the hallway, feet bare against the rough wooden boards, the gun a heavy weight in his trembling hands. Dean. He’s lost Mary, _Mary,_ the love of his life—he will not lose his sons to whatever is out there. He will not let them burn up, too. John still can’t believe it, but he still sees it: his wife pinned to the ceiling, stomach dripping bright red blood, eyes empty and mouth still gaping wide. The memory seethes, blisters, and boils every time John’s trail leads to nothing, just another damn shapeshifter or vampire. He hears Mary’s scream play over and over as he shouts exorcisms and shoots ghosts full of rock salt.  
  
Dean’s door is still closed. Dean whimpered when he was put in his own room, so Bobby moved a crib cobbled together hastily so that Dean could be with Sammy. He cannot hear Sammy crying, but Sammy sleeps through anything.  
  
John kicks the door in and raises the gun.  
  
There’s nothing wrong.  
  
Dean is now sleeping, a tiny smile on his lips. His mouth moves with soundless words, and John slowly lowers the gun, eyes still searching the room warily. Another nightmare? Dean’s had those, ever since the fire—and who wouldn’t? But he worries. Dean’s always been a chatty thing, trailing after Mary and babbling about his toys that have replayed events from _Star Wars_ or Sammy’s latest antics or what kind of pie Mary will make after finishing a pot roast. It was a pain to get Dean to calm down enough so he could sleep. Mary always read to him from the same book and sang her favorite Beatles song. John always leaned against the doorway, listening as her melodic tones brushed over them both, feather-light. God, he _misses_ Mary. Why did this happen to her? Why did this happen to Mary, Mary who ordered strawberry malts every time at their favorite diner since they first met, Mary who snuck through his window one night after her father forbade them from seeing each other, Mary who was beside him every time up in the morning?  
  
Dean misses his mother. He always had a smile for her. He would sing “Hey Jude” the best he could back to her after Mary finished. But now, he’s silent, mouth tightly shut, arms wrapped around his body. John has tried multiple times to get him to speak. _Good morning, Dean. Do you want some cereal? How about some chocolate? There’s Sammy, what do you think he’s dreaming about? Do you want to talk, Dean? Can you? Dean, answer me._  
  
Dean only shakes his head. The only time he speaks is when he cries out in his sleep. He rarely does that, ever since John’s warned him about something finding them in the dark. His son is smart. He hasn’t heard a peep from him for two weeks.  
  
But this must have been an especially bad dream. John finally sets the gun down carefully against the wall and watches Dean, still sleeping, breathe in with a soft giggle between his teeth. What’s he thinking? His face is slack with contentment, and as he rolls over, he smiles again. His lips form a word that John doesn’t understand. Is he saying something? Can he even _talk_ anymore? Missouri and Bobby and Ellen have all told him to give Dean time, but what if he’s damaged in some way? How will he fix it?  
  
"Dean, what is it?" He whispers softly, but his son only kicks his leg against the sheets and buries down underneath the covers. He’s still smiling. John stares, watches him for a while, and rises to go back to bed.

* * *

It’s warm and light here. Dean pats the damp sand, soft like his favorite blue blanket. His bare toes wriggle in wet gooey-ness. He giggles. It’s wet and dries weirdly on his skin and _tickles_. Water is pushing up the sand, but it doesn’t touch his castle at all. Dean’s found some twigs to add to the top, some leaves for flags, and some pretty seashells for the people. They are Daddy and Mommy and Sammy. And himself, of course.  
  
Something runs through his hair. Dean smiles. It feels like when Mommy brushes his hair in the mornings. He’s a big boy and can do it himself, but Dean likes it when Mommy does it anyway. He misses Mommy, and his fingers tremble when they pick up a pink stone in one of the sand rooms. Mommy… _Mommy is gone,_ Daddy said. Gone forever. There’s something twisting in his tummy and his chest and it hurts. Hurts worse than when he skimmed his knee while running or fell from a tree that he wasn’t supposed to be climbing. It hurts, it _hurts—_  
  
Fingers brush his forehead reassuringly, then arms go around him, pressing around him tightly. He inhales sunlight and feels his nose tickle under something softer than the sand. There’s a rustle, and it surrounds him, but doesn’t block out the sunlight. Dean sneezes, but grabs at the shade—it’s also very soft—by the tips of his fingers. Feathers. He closes his eyes.

He knows this feeling. It’s _safe_.

Dean looks up. He can’t really tell exactly what it looks like. The face is very bright and a bit hard to see, like the times the windows catch the sun’s rays and shine in his eyes. It hurts a little, but he knows the light won’t hurt him. This light is Cas.  
  
At least, that’s what he understands. Cas shakes his head, keeps repeating something Dean can’t really say, like long words Mommy and Daddy say. Grown-up words. But he tries. _It’s okay,_ Cas tells him. _You don’t have to say it if it’s too difficult._  
  
The hands around him pat the sand. Dean points to a room. His bedroom. It’s the biggest and nicest in the castle. There’s a bed and a big toy chest and a TV. Daddy liked to watch the TV, talking about home runs and pointing at the screen. Dean thought it was exciting. He couldn’t wait to start T-ball again. (It’s like baseball, but for little kids.) When Dean’s older, he told his dad he would play grown-up ball. Daddy used to smile when Dean said this, telling him to play for the Kansas City Royals. That’s Daddy’s favorite team. And Mommy’s, too.  
  
 _Mommy._  
  
 _Oh, Dean,_ Cas sighs. _You’re too young to experience such pain._ He’s tucked into another hug. Dean hugs back. It’s been a long time since a hug. Dean loves hugs.  
  
 _I know,_ Cas whispers, like they’re in a library. Dean closes his eyes when a breeze washes over him. It lifts his shirt a little, and Dean giggles as it tickles. He wants to play in the waves again. He’s set down, and Dean runs the best he can towards the sea. He knows what the sea is. He’s been to the beach on his birthday. It was special. It might have been the best day ever. Mommy made a cake and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crusts cut off. He likes the crusts cut off and won’t eat it unless it doesn’t have crusts. Mommy tells him not to be so picky, but she does it anyway.  
  
Cas lifts him so he can kick at the waves. He sometimes flies over them like a bird. Dean is a bit scared, but knows Cas won’t drop him. He’s safe. He likes seeing the blues and greens and grays in the sea. The sand is white, like a perfect crayon, and the sun is warm but not too warm on his face. It’s always day here. It feels like a hug.  
  
Dean closes his eyes and raises his arms, like Superman. His toes touch the water, and he laughs again. He’s rewarded with a squeeze around the middle and warm breath in his ear. It sounds like wind chimes, like the ones on the front porch, and Dean smiles. He’s made Cas laugh.  
  
Hands put him back down on the beach and help him finish the castle. The castle grows, bigger than a tree, when it’s done, and Dean squeals. It’s so _cool_! He can walk through the doorways now and run through the halls. Cas chases him, and when he catches Dean, he picks him up and spins him around. Dean throws back his head and screams with delight, raising his fists in the air.  
  
A bell tinkles nearby. Dean looks. There’s a man pushing a cart, shiny and silver. It has a picture of ice cream, and Dean squirms impatiently in Cas’ arms.  
  
 _Dean, would you like some?_  
  
Dean nods eagerly, and fingers wrap around his as they both walk to the man. He scoops up a tower on top of the chocolate-covered cone with sprinkles. There’s strawberry and vanilla and chocolate and peppermint. There’s also a red one, his favorite, cherry pie.  
  
 _What do you say, Dean?_  
  
He nods to the man, a thank you, and the man tips his hat like in the movies. Dean licks at his ice cream and smiles, sticky but happy. It has to be the best in the world! It’s cold, but not so cold that his head aches. He tries to lick faster, because ice cream melts when it gets warm, but it doesn’t melt. There’s even _chocolate_ at the bottom!  
  
Soft fabric wipes at his mouth when he’s done, like Mommy used to do. Dean licks his lips to get all the chocolate, and fingers comb through his hair again. He smiles up at the light. _Cas._  
  
 _Did you like it?_  
  
 _Yes._ Dean beams. _Thank you!_  
  
He doesn’t have to talk here. He can just think it, and Cas understands. He wishes Daddy or Sammy or the grown-ups can understand, too. But it doesn’t. It’s a dream, but Dean is happy here.  
  
 _Cas,_ he smiles blissfully. _Cas._  
  
 _You’re safe, Dean._ The light cradles him, warms him. _You’re safe._  
  
"Cas," he says, out loud, and wakes up.

* * *

Castiel glances down at the sleeping man on the ratty hotel bed. He’s grimacing, shifting roughly against the covers, kicking them off as his face pours with sweat. Dean Winchester remembers Hell, even though his mind has tried its best to abate it. His superiors ordered that Dean must remember, but Castiel can make it so it doesn’t burst through all at once. But even the smaller bits are enough to make Dean have nightmares.  
  
He knows Dean is no stranger to bad dreams. Ever since Mary Winchester was killed by Azazel, both John and Dean have had vivid recollections of the event. Sam also has, but in vague flashes and not-quite clear colors. Mostly, Sam recalls the feeling of safety coupled with worry, being held tightly against Dean's fast-beating chest. Dean had the worst nightmares, all fire and heat and pain and fear. His mind was too small to process it all in understandable forms, and it crushes him.  
  
Castiel had eased this a little. He built a beach, not unlike one of his favorite heavens, and entertained Dean, who scrambled in the waves and shaped houses and people with the fine white sand. Dean sang and ate his favorite treats and even embraced Castiel when the memories began to resurface. Castiel comforted him, holding him safe in his arms where nothing evil can touch him. He had known that it would eventually catch up to Dean, snag its claws and drag him down, and cut him into so many pieces that Castiel had had to use his own Grace to fix him.  
  
Dean groans in his sleep. Alastair is holding him down, carving him bloody to the bone, snarling with cruel laughter, promising relief if Dean does the same to the soul on the rack. In his dream, Dean screams, screams, and screams. He does not scream in the real world, and Castiel wonders how.  
  
Castiel places two fingers to Dean’s forehead. He can alleviate the pain for a while. But his superiors have clearly said that Dean must not remember Castiel, the Castiel who sang to him in his crib or bounced him in his lap. Certainly, Dean cannot be reminded of the beach.  
  
Castiel instead closes his eyes. What is the next best thing?  
  
He recalls a happy memory from Jimmy’s mind, asking first for permission to access the man’s memories. Jimmy gives him a clear picture, and Castiel gets to work, concentrating as hard as he can, weaving first the main components for a foundation. The details will come last.  
  
A dock unfolds underneath his thoughts, with gently rocking waves of a sunlit lake and silvery trout. Trees, golden with autumn and approaching sunrise, dot around the far shoreline. Birds are chirping quietly in the tranquil atmosphere. Dean now sits in a comfortable folding chair, a fishing pole between his fingers and a tackle box at his feet. He jumps, looks around with a mixture of confusion and curiously, and mutters, “What?”  
  
Castiel feels his Grace leap inside his chest, very much like a heartbeat.  
  
"You’re safe, Dean."

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a headcanon exchange with bookkbaby, whom you should definitely check out! It's an ongoing series, so feel free to check my tumblr for updates!


End file.
